


Goin' Places

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Cancer, Money, Recreational Drug Use, Running Away, Tommy's Rich, TommyInnit is Dying, but not in a right away kinda way, idk what this is, not treating cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tommy running away bc he's dying and hates his life
Kudos: 107
Collections: Anonymous





	Goin' Places

The static grew louder in Tommy's ears, a constant, shrill ringing intermittent with words like ‘terminal’ and ‘stage four’ and ‘prolongue’, along with phrases such as ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘there really isn’t anything else’. His father argued with their - his, Tommy's - doctor, riled. Tim heard large sums of money being tossed around, dangled in front of the doctor’s nose. The mentions of ‘second opinions’. He didn’t much care for it.

Tommy already knew he was going to die one day. He had accepted it, a long time ago, (10 years, 4 months, 12 days), when he watched the soul of his Nanny leave her body, witnessed the silver whisps exhale from her lungs, through her mouth, her nose; cried as the fire dimmed in her eyes, silent, tears of insecurity and loneliness. She was his friend. He had wiped them away before his father returned to the room.

At that moment in time, it didn’t matter to Tommy that his death seemed imminent. (“Without some form of treatment, my diagnosis is three months. With treatment, you’re looking at another nine on top of that, perhaps fifteen in total.”) Three, six, nine? Tommy didn’t care. (He would, later on, when he was alone. He would care very much).

“Father,” Tommy said, eventually, only it wasn’t Tommy, not really; “We should get going. Mother’s croquet class ends soon. She’ll want to hear the news.” With nothing else to say to his father nor his doctor, Tommy stood, nodded, curt and brief, and left the office. He moved on autopilot to his father’s car, stepping out of the way for people, all the while nothing still really registering inside him.

Thomas Innit was dying. That was a confirmed fact. And it was unlikely to change, no matter which esteemed doctor(s) provided a second, third, or even fourth opinion. But that was okay. (It wasn’t okay). Tommy was fine with that. (Tommy was nowhere near fine with that). All good things had to end eventually. (Was Tommy's life even good? ) It probably was. For someone else. Someone who wasn’t, well, Tommy.

Sure, the money was nice, and the luxuries associated with said money. But that was about it. Private school wasn’t nice. Only having ‘associates’ wasn’t nice. Having part-time parents who wouldn’t even notice if you ran away, wasn’t nice. No, Tommy's life hadn’t been nice since the unfortunate passing of. Well. Of everything but himself.

What do you even do when you runaway? Tommy asked himself. He remembered when he did, as a child, a small boy of nine. He left a note on his bed, not for his parents, but for his nanny, and had stuffed his pockets with nuts and chocolate. He was gone for seven hours and made it all the way to downtown Gotham before a policeman picked him up. (Not because his parents had phoned the police in a frantic, desperate search; but because the policeman had thought he looked too nice to be roaming those streets and, when questioned, Tommy found it difficult to lie. His parents had thought he was in his room. His nanny had been given the evening off, and so Tommy could forgive her easily for not finding his note).

He figured he needed a bag, some clothes, a blanket, sparse toiletries, and cash. Of course cash. The one fortunate thing about part time parents? All of Tommy's bank accounts were in his name. His savings account wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. Tommy had enough to not need to dip into that pile for a good few years, if he was careful, if he did everything properly- not that he had a few years anyway, it seemed. All this didn’t mean that his parents’ couldn’t trace his location by checking card purchases, of course; no, Tommy would have to have his money in cash. It would take a few days, but Tommy could withdraw enough to have him set for a month or two, and then withdraw more before moving on.

Perhaps he could rent a series of apartments, or hotel suites. The possibilities were endless!

All he had to do, first, was get out.

Not a hard task.

A week after his appointment with the doctor, Tommy found himself sat in the front seat of a stranger’s car; an old, beat up Honda Civic. Tommy didn’t think he’d ever been in such an old car. He kind of liked it.

They drove in the dark, with the windows down, the stranger holding a cigarette in his hands. Tommy was certain that whatever this guy was smoking, wasn’t just tobacco. Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to care; didn’t care about the way the stranger had slowed his car to a crawl besides Tommy, asked if he wanted a ride, an inconceivable look in his glassed over eyes, the brown sitting dull amongst the red rims. Tommy hadn’t answered verbally, had just gotten in the car with this stranger and his (probable) drugs, and told him to take him somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here, and he’d pay for gas when they stopped. (They didn’t stop, this stranger had a full tank).

“Where you wanna go, kid?” The stranger asked, hours into the silence, offering Tommy some of his (second) roll up.

“Not a kid,” Tommy muttered, accepting the cigarette, attempting to smoke it- emphasis on attempting, because he choked, ending up coughing and inhaling most of it down his throat which was bad, my God, that was so bad what the hell why do people do this before promptly handing it back. The stranger had watched, bemused, thumping him on the back to help him get it all out.

“S’alright,” the stranger said, nodding as he took a drag, “It’s not for everyone.” Tommy just glared out the window. “So where we going?” Tommy didn’t react to the ‘we’. High or not, this guy was agreeing to take him somewhere. Tommy thought it over a moment.

“How far is the Grand Canyon?”

“Seven hours.” The stranger said, right off the bat. “Five to six if I break every speed limit in place. You got gas money?” Tommy nodded. The stranger drove on in silence a while longer, seeming to think about it. “Why the hell not.” He said eventually.

This entire scenario was surreal, but it was happening. And it was happening to Tommy, goody two shoes Thomas Innit, who was dying, but that was okay, because he was no longer alone. He was driving somewhere far away with someone who was also (probably) far away, and who would probably, when sober minded, chuck Tommy out at the nearest town, which was also okay, because it beats public transport and only puts him closer towards the Canyon, if they don't make it that far before it happens.

All in all, Tommy thought he had this running away lark nailed down. 


End file.
